A Hero's Burden
by laussie
Summary: He swore on his own blade to never allow himself to bring love into such a blood thirsty world, but to be the bringer of justice unto the head of many a criminal. He would live until his dying day a man of solitude, yet a man of service to Albion. The life and love of Sparrow, and later, his daughter. [Remake of my original story under the same name.]
1. Prologue

**This is a rewrite of my original story under the same title. Plot is essentially the same, just with a major upgrade to my writing in general. Please read and review!**

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He had learnt from a young age that certain things weren't supposed to belong in the life of a hero. He had learnt to manage his drinking. He had learnt to share his gold. He had learnt that love and the comfort of a woman's arms could not be trusted as long as he carried the guild seal.

He had accepted that as a hero his body and soul lie bound to the citizens of Albion in which he had sworn to serve. He had understood that instead of bringing life and love into the world his would be the face many would see as the last of the light left their eyes. He swore on his own blade to never allow himself to bring love into such a blood thirsty world, but to be the bringer of justice unto the head of many a criminal. He would live until his dying day a man of solitude, yet a man of service to Albion.

It was rather unsettling how quickly his plans unraveled.


	2. Chapter 1

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He had enough sense about him to realize he was in a bloody terrible state. Quite literally, in fact. It was his first pass through Rookridge, which thanks to the various bandit encounters had left him not only exhausted but with such a variety of wounds he was having difficulty remaining upright. He was less than a few feet passed the town gates of Oakfield when he collapsed to his knees, causing his mutt to bark like a madman as the wound to his forehead dripped steadily down his face and into the dirt.

"Oh!"

He heard her girlish squeal before his head snapped up roughly and he saw her. She looked rather like a trout, her mouth open in surprise and her braids practically standing on end as she took in his surely frightening appearance. He shut his eyes, waiting for her to let out a blood curdling scream and sprint full force to the nearest guard.

"Bloody hell, are ye alright?" He had never heard such vulgar language come out of such a feminine mouth, and it was that more than anything that made him open his eyes. She had taken a few steps closer to him, prodding the edge of his robes with her slipper-clad toes.

Bloody hell indeed. He was certainly not going to be dragged into town by a girl who barely weighed more than his boots. Waving his pistol clumsily in her general direction- her certainly had lost a lot of blood- he forced his drooping eyelids open. Admittedly, he did not look like much a threat slumped in a mixture dirt and his own blood, and couldn't blame the girl for snickering before promptly turning her attention to his dog. "And who do we have here? Ye certainly are a lovely boy, aren't ye?" The girl settled onto her knees, scratching the mutt heartily behind the ear.

He watched her warily from the dirt. She was tiny, blonde, and hardly a threat to him, yet he had to admire her nerve- she could hardly be seventeen and had barley blinked at his vicious weaponry. She was grinning at him lopsidedly above his mutts head, her eyes reminding him of rosy green apples they used to sell in the market in Bowerstone. Tossing her blond plaited hair over her shoulder and out of the dirt she sent him a look with a certain tenderness he had not seen since the days Rose had been by his side. "Ye know, if someone talks to ye yer supposed to talk back." He stared at her stonily from the dirt, prompting her to cock her head onto her shoulder. "Perhaps ye can't talk then?"

"I can talk just fine!" Whatever blood was left in his body rushed to his cheeks, her teasing pressing on an old childhood nerve and willing him to his feet. Whistling his dog to his side, he propped himself up unsteadily on his ax and set off at a clumsy pace towards The Sandgoose.

She clicked her tongue, keeping pace easily beside him. "My name's Libby ye know. Ye haven't told me yer name yet." She didn't seem bothered by his dismissive shrug or the large amount of blood pouring from his face. "Hm. Ye look like a Peter. Maybe an Andrew. Harvey?" Silence. "Come now dear. What's yer name?"

He could feel his face turning crimson. "Sparrow."

He had been expecting Libby to laugh, but instead she let out another delighted squeal. "Oh, sparrow? I love sparrows." To his surprise, she let out a rather cheerful whistle, almost identical to the bird's for which he had been named. "Charming birds, aren't they? They always sing in the mornings."

He stopped suddenly, causing her to walk a few extra paces in front of him. "You know my name. Now leave me alone."

She simply looked at him, her giant green eyes reflecting the light that bounced through the oak trees. "Yer quite rude, did ye know that?" He exhaled air roughly from his nose.

"Yes."

"Well if ye know yer rude, then why don't ye stop?" She barely flinched at his glare. "Is it because ye don't like people?"

"Yes."

"Or maybe because people don't like ye? Ye know, people would like ye more if ye weren't so rude."

She barely flinched as he pushed her roughly out of his way, but seemed to realize her cue to leave. Allowing him to stumble roughly through the tavern doors, he barely heard her call out "See ye later, bird brain!"


	3. Chapter 2

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Libby's presence was one he found unavoidable on his frequent trips to Oakfield over the next few months. He supposed she must have been waiting for word of his impending arrival from the travelling traders in which he passed on the road—how else would she know of his exact day of appearance?

Regardless of her methods, she was always there. Perched up in an old oak merely feet from the town gates, he could see her singing to herself the moment he rounded the final corner in Rookridge. He would go maybe a moment unnoticed before she would wave at him and scramble out of the tree in excitement, rushing to meet him a few feet down the road. He found the whole thing rather childish and stupid, and his opinion of Libby was hardly different.

There was not very much about Libby that he was fond of. He found her loud and her laughter deafening. She seemed to have an opinion about everything and in each of those opinions he was doing something wrong. She had the emotional capacity of a toddler- she felt everything in various extremes, always leaving him bewildered at her ability to feel so much yet not explode. She was extremely fond of whacking him around the head—regardless of if she was impressed or upset at his behaviour he was guaranteed to leave Oakfield with a massive bump on the back of his head—he started developing a headache at even the thought of visiting the village.

This was one of those times. A dull throbbing in his temples had made itself present as he watched Libby running at him down the path. His mutt however, was of a different mind—he had already run forward, attempting to lick Libby's ears.

"Sparrow!" Another thing about Libby was her complete lack of a concept of personal space. She flung her arms around him, seemingly oblivious to the fact that his arms were stiff at his sides. He could feel himself going red around the ears, his headache seeming to increase in strength.

"Well, where have ye been this time?" Libby was endlessly interested with what she referred to as his "hero business." He couldn't imagine why a simple farm girl was so obsessed with the blood and gore that was associated with being a supposed hero.

"Brightwood." He had learned a while ago that the only way to avoid at least a few bumps on the head was to answer Libby's questions. "Helped out a farmer named Giles." As they walked toward The Sandgoose a few of the villagers waved or nodded in welcome. Quite frankly, he wasn't so fond of the recognition and fame that being a "hero" had given him.

Beside him, Libby grinned, walking a little faster than usual to keep pace with him. There was not much he liked about her, but he would admit that she was lovely to look at. Like most of the girls in Oakfield she was mostly very plain, with her plaited hair and worn green dress. She worked hard in the fields every day, freckling her skin and giving her wheat coloured hair an added shine. Her eyes, however, were the one thing he found most appealing about her. Like the leaves of newly blossoming apple trees, they were the kind of green that could never be imitated with dye—a deep, fresh green that reminded him of early summer breeze and made it worthwhile to put up with her blabbering just to get a glimpse at them.

She had been talking and hadn't noticed him staring. "… I thought I heard of that a while ago. Shame about his poor wife. Fancy a walk?"

Staring stonily at a point somewhere above her left shoulder he sighed. "Not really."

Libby chose to ignore his response and firmly placed his arm in her grasp. "Come now, it will only take a little bit. Then ye can get back to yer hero business." She sent him her usual lopsided grin and began yanking him down a secluded path. "Things are the same here. There always the same here. Nothing ever changes..."

"If nothing ever changes then why do you always insist on telling me all about it?"

She whacked him roughly around the head, huffing slightly. "That's what friends do, Sparrow. They tell each other about their lives."

"I don't care about your life, though." She stopped walking rather abruptly, her emerald eyes narrowed to such a degree that it was a wonder she could see out of them. Sensing he had crossed some sort of line, he snorted slightly, shrugging. "Okay, that was a bit rude. I apologize."

"Thank you." Sniffing slightly, she immediately picked up her usual demeanour, her hands keeping a slightly more painful grip about his arm. "Ye know, you mean a lot to the people of this village. Everyone is always talking about ye. Ye give people a lot of hope."

"In what? All I do is bludgeon people to death."

Pink blotches began to appear on her cheeks. "But ye don't bludgeon any of us to death. Ye give a lot of people something worth believing in. Yer a real Hero, Sparrow."

They had stopped walking, the pressure of her arms around his causing the colour in his cheeks to rise. He tried his best to look stonily down at her, grunting. "I don't know about hero, in the traditional sense... I just don't like seeing people hurt if I can't help it."

"Which is a lot more than anyone else around here can say." Her eyes dropped his as her hand went up to trace a will line extending from beneath the collar of his shirt. "They say ye can use magic, Sparrow." Her voice had dropped to a whisper.

He remained stonily silent, silently willing her fingers to leave his skin. The way Libby was looking at him... It couldn't be allowed. Not with him being what he was. Sighing, he removed himself from her grasp, nervously tugging his gloves up to his wrists. "I have to go." This was not entirely true, but the matter of it's necessary falsehood didn't stop Libby's cheeks from blotching an angry crimson.

"But, ye only just got here!" She whined. "Ye haven't been here more than an hour. So many people want to talk to ye. I want to talk to ye!"

He exhaled sharply through his nose. "Look." He grabbed the hand that had been sneaking up to whack him about the head, glaring at her. "We need to get something straight. If I really am the damn hero everyone thinks I am then I have a lot of work to get done before I come close to whatever expectations they may have. I have enough on my plate without adding you to it."

Libby glared fiercely back at him. "I'm not asking ye to take care of me, so what if I want my friend to come and visit for longer than a second?"

"I'm not your bloody friend!" He had said it a lot louder than he had meant to, causing her to rip her arm from his grasp angrily. Something in her expression reminded him so sharply of Rose that he forced himself a few paces back.

"I'm not your bloody friend." He repeated, turning on his heel and leaving her entirely alone.


	4. Chapter 3

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The weapons trader, Gerald, was shaking his head at him when he passed the stall down the road. The old man's hat was slightly askew, revealing perhaps a bit more of his balding head than usual.

"Ye really are a fool, aren't ye?"

Sparrow had no response for this, settling to simply shrug and stare determinedly at the price of the axe that was out of his pocket by a wide margin. He could hear Libby's hurried steps down the road and the various curses she was muttering at him.

Gerald nudged him painfully in the ribs, muttering low in his ear. "That girl is mad for ye, lad."

It was becoming clearer by the second that he would be unable to leave without engaging in conversation, something that caused another painful throb to the side of his temple. "She is mad, I won't disagree with that." He owed nothing to her, who was she to make a claim on his time? He had more pressing matter to attend to than to spend time with the girl with the green eyes.

Gerald shook his head once more, his hat becoming even more lop-sided. "Ye could do a lot worse than that, lad." When he made little more than a non-committal grunt, Gerald placed a rough hand on his shoulder, giving him a slight shake. "She'd skin me if she knew I was telling ye, but that lass climbs that oak tree every day waiting for ye to come back to her." He could feel his cheeks going rather red, his dog beside him hiding his snout. "And between me and ye, I would say that the wife of hero needs that kind of faith."

"I'm not looking for a wife. Especially not one like Libby."

Gerald gave a booming laugh, slapping him rather hard around the neck. Apparently Libby's fondness for hitting was inherited from a whole village who loved violence. "There have been a fair few lads wedded who once said that exact thing, ye know. Ye can only resist a girl that beautiful for that long."

He was feeling rather hot around the neck. Certainly Libby was beautiful, but he could never imagine her married—he could think of no man patient enough to put up with her short temper and selfish personality. "Not me, Gerald."

Gerald gave another booming laugh. "Come now, the life of a hero can't be all lonely!"

He didn't bother to respond to the old man as he turned on his heel towards The Sandgoose. No one could quite understand the sacrifices a hero must make to serve his people. Trivial things such as love only led to pain—he had seen it with Rose once, and he had seen it again as Hammer's father lay dead upon the floor. Companionship only led to suffering. Loneliness was just another hero's burden.


	5. Chapter 4

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Despite his firm resolution to ignore every word Gerald had said to him, his thoughts could not be shaken from Libby. He could imagine her, waiting in the oak tree for hours and finally ascending from it at dusk when he had not arrived, a frown on her face. The idea of it made him feel strangely lonely on her behalf.

Although he had given her the impression that he would not be in town longer than a few minutes, he spent the rest of the afternoon awkwardly wandering the streets searching for her. He had no idea what he would say when he saw her, nor did he have an excuse for his extended visit to the village. He could, however, think of a thousand other things that he could accomplish within the time he was wasting looking for her, all of which were severely more practical that mending her hurt feelings. Yet the mental image of her waiting in the oak every day seemed to nag at his conscious, spurring him to pursue her presence further.

He found her in the early evening drinking at the tavern—evidentially, the prospect of getting rip roaring drunk had lured her out of whatever hiding place she had managed to find. She didn't look up as he entered the almost empty bar, nor did she respond to his greeting. Taking a seat beside her, he stared at her expectantly until she had no other option but to acknowledge his existence.

"What do ye want?" She would not meet his eye but chose to stare angrily at a spot on his hat, her cheeks still a blotchy crimson.

Like she so often did for him, he chose to ignore her rudeness. "You're being quite childish."

"I'm being childish?"

"And selfish too."

He pointedly took a swig of the ale the barmaid had just brought him as she glared daggers into him. "Oh, I see." He was caught off guard by how dangerously quiet her tone was. "Which would ye like to be, the kettle or the pot?"

He had been jumped by bandits plenty of times, but he was just as caught off guard now as he was then. "How on earth am I selfish?"

"Ye hardly visit anymore Sparrow! Always off on yer hero business! Friendship goes both ways ye know!" She ran a hand though her hair, breathing heavily though her nose.

"I'm supposed to be a hero!" He bellowed, quite a deal louder than he had intended. "I don't ask for it, Albion needs me to make certain sacrifices!"

Libby slammed her glass down on the counter with surprising force, drawing a certain amount attention to their corner of the bar. "Oh yes, Albion! Ye can go rushing off to help yer beloved country any second, who cares about abandoning yer friend for weeks on end!"

He was unaware of spilling his ale down his front. "Oh, please. We're hardly friends! You just fancy me!"

If possible she went even more crimson, her braid beginning to come undone from her yanking her hands through it. "I don't… that's hardly the point! I waited for ye! At least have the courtesy to send word of whether or not yer dead!"

"I don't ask you to wait for me! And every day no less!" She looked surprised that he knew about her daily excursions to the oak tree, but appeared by no means embarrassed—if anything, he had spurred her to fight even more. "I don't know what you think this is, but I can't…" His voice broke and they stared at one another for a long moment, both breathing heavily. "I can't Libby. Any of it. Even if I wanted to be your… anything. It's too dangerous." It was perhaps the most he had ever spoken in one sitting, but it was important that she understood why he couldn't allow himself to pursue companionship. "People who get close to a hero… they are constantly put in danger. And I can't do that to another person. I've done it before and it didn't end well."

She was biting her lip in a way that looked rather painful, an angry look still in her face. "Ye damn heroes. Obsessed with self-sacrifice."

"I didn't choose this."

She glared at him across the table not encouraged by his soft tone. "What if I don't care what happens to me?"

"You don't care about being killed? Taken hostage to lure me into a trap? About having to worry every time a stranger wanders into Oakfield, because he may be trying to get to me though you?" She gave an infuriating shake of her head. He was no longer in the mood for argument, and he didn't care enough about her to try to disagree with her. "Then I guess it's your funeral."

She gave him a half smile. "Excellent. Then we're friends."

He couldn't think of anything to say and simply shrugged. Gerald's voice was ringing in the back of his mind. Libby certainly was mad about him.


	6. Chapter 5

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Officially being Libby's friend, it turned out, was even less delightful than he had hoped for. And he had hardly hoped for much.

He had expected certain things, of course- the increased amount of touching, for instance, he had not be surprised by. He had never been fond of skin to skin contact and Libby seemed to have taken it upon herself to cure him of such a lack of fondness; she seemed to be constantly running her hands through his hair, yanking his arm in delight, and increasing the amount of times she had to whack him round the head on a daily basis.

He had also expected that she would be requiring a certain amount of attention for her to be satisfied- such attention naturally included various gifts from the towns he visited, no matter how much money they seemed to cost. He could no longer go weeks without making an appearance within Oakfield- his presence was required at least every 10 days, something that made his adventuring both limited and frustrating at times. He was forced to send word if he would be longer.

"Behaviour like this is only appropriate of old batty couples, you know." Hammer nudged him roughly in the ribs one night during one of their frequent trips back to the village. "Haven't met her parents yet, have you?"

"Don't think she really has parents." He eyed Libby across the tavern, watching her pluck miscellaneous notes from the bard's lute. "Mother's dead or as good as, and her father's a travelling trader of some sort. Never met the bloke."

Hammer snorted into her mug. "How romantic, two orphans falling in love." She caught sight of him staring at Libby over the brim of his goblet. "Why do you do it then? If you hate her so much?"

Sparrow shrugged, merely taking a mighty swig of ale. Across the room Libby was singing with the bard, her head tossed back as she laughed clumsily through a note. For all the things he hated about her, he loved only one thing: the way she sang. She seemed to breathe music in the kind of way that made everyone who heard stop and listen- from her singing to her whistling, she never produced a sour note.

He knew why he was doing it, of course. He felt guilty for what he had done to her. He knew the consequences of being associated with a hero, and be it tomorrow or ten years down the road Libby was going to pay for it.

He owed it to her to make her risk at the very least worth it.


	7. Chapter 6

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"Well, there go your stunning good looks." That had been how Hammer had put it. But she had always been anything but tactful.

They had been on their way to Westcliff, picking their way through the BanditCoast and its various inhabitants when it had happened. A clean stroke from an enemy's blade had left a sickening amount of blood dripping down his chin, his left eye lying separated from his body in the dirt. He had been privately sick in the bushes after it happened, leaving Hammer to finish the fight as he coated the earth in vomit.

He was not a narcissistic man by any means, but he did feel a certain loss for his looks. He took pride in the way the many women he encountered on his travels would give a second glance to his brutish muscles and scarred skin, the way they would yank his golden hair as they dragged him into dimly lit corners of bars. He had never really noticed the colour of his eyes, but now compared to the ugly scar and bulging eye patch the baby blue looked oddly lonely.

He had refused to acknowledge the loss of his eye and the fact that he had lost his ability with his pistol along with it; as Theresa had put it, he would adjust in time and make up for the loss with a more complex reliance on will. The people of Albion, it seemed, had taken the loss of his eye almost harder than he had—he could hardly go anywhere without hearing comments about how it dampened his appearance; how he "hardly stood a chance of marrying in this state." The world of ugliness was not one he was accustomed too, nor was he to the screaming of children as they ran from him, flocking to hide in the arms of their embarrassed mothers.

He knew he was avoiding Oakfield. He was purposely arranging his quests to avoid the place, knowing full well that Libby would be cross with him when he finally had the courage to face her. Despite himself he knew he had come to care about her opinion, especially in regard to his appearance. Going to Oakfield meant endless amounts of teasing, which was something he was unwilling to face.

"You know you're being a bit of an arse to her." They had been drinking at the Westcliff pub, Hammer listening to his muttering about Libby and her insensitivities.

"I'm perfectly aware, thanks." He had picked up the habit of pulling his hat low over his bad eye when he was annoyed, something he caught himself doing whenever he mentioned Libby.

Hammer was drinking double the ale he was and evidentially was in no mood to put up with him. "All I'm saying is, despite the fact that she's completely insane, she's probably worried about you. At least go visit her and get it over with." He allowed himself a shrug. "On the plus side, if she thinks you're too hideous to look at you never have to go back again."

That was a very good point.


	8. Chapter 7

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She wasn't in the oak tree, but he hadn't expected her to be.

As he began to make his way though Oakfield in absence of her regular greeting, thoughts of the task at hand began to consume him. He wasn't sure what he thought of the possibility of never seeing Libby again- and judging by the knotting in his stomach, neither did it. Granted, that very possibility had been what had drawn him to Oakfield in the first place.

"Oi Sparrow, what happened to yer face?" A little boy had disrupted him from his thoughts, one he knew by face but not by name. "Ye look like a troll!"

Another kind of man would have smacked the child around the head for such an insult, but he was not that man. He would simply have to grow used to such behaviour.

The experience of losing his eye had been an odd one. He had never appreciated his good looks until he had lost them, it seemed- he greatly missed the silent looks of admiration he had once received when walking through Oakfield's streets, and would gladly exchange them for the stares and snickers he was receiving now. He had reached The Sandgoose's doors and could see before entering that the pub itself was empty, giving no clue as to where Libby was.

"Mrs. Pots?" The woman in question had been staring at him as he had wandered down the streets, her multiple chins quivering with focus on his eye patch and protruding scar, the wet basket of laundry at her feet neglecting to get hung to dry.

"Sparrow dear. What on earth did ye do to yer eye?" A larger woman with ferociously curled brown hair, Mrs. Pots was the wife of the local Games Master, the gambling habit of her husband paying for her appetite.

He could feel himself reddening around the ears and yanked his hat even lower onto his face, her gaze not once leaving his scar. "Haven't seen Libby by chance?"

"She's been sulking round her house for weeks, silly lass. Did she do that to ye?"

"No ma'am."

He had found the path to her house far to easily considering he had only ever seen it when Libby pointed it out to him several months before, his stomach seeming to jump with every step closer to her door. Truth be told, he had grown more accustomed to Libby's presence than he had of any other person's. She was hardly annoying anymore- or perhaps he was simply used to her. He had grown fond of her excessive talking; it always impressed him that she had so much to say, even when he had nothing to speak of on the topic. And in the rare moments that she didn't have anything to say she would sing songs to the birds until they whistled back, something that he was particularly fond of when the sparrows participated.

How he would feel about Libby's coming disapproval of his appearance, he already knew. As much as he had, unbelievably, come to somewhat enjoy her companionship, her own disgust would terminate whatever threat that his presence had set upon her life. And her own severance of their ties would make the blow easier than if he had done it himself, at whatever point down the road it would become too dangerous for them to associate with each other. It was, after all, for the best.

He could see her in her yard, slouching against the stone garden wall and looking utterly depressed. He could see how easily she could get lonely- an only child, her father a travelling trader and (he had had to coax this out of her several months before) her mother having run off with a man from Bowerstone several years previously; the small cottage on the edge of Oakfield didn't exactly give off the impression of warmth and companionship. Perhaps that had been why she had clung to him in such a way- he had never bothered to ask. Yanking his hat down farther on his face, he cleared his throat.

She jumped, her head snapping back quickly. For a moment she stared at him, her green eyes wide in surprise before she seemed to remember that she was supposed to be furious at him. "Oh, it's ye, is it?" Splotches of red began to flood her cheeks, her hands balling into fists.

He didn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't that. He allowed himself a few steps forward and a weak nod. Her green eyes were so narrow he was surprised she could see, her hands clenched into her hips. "I know I've been a while." Beside him, his mutt gave a nervous whine.

"A month and a bit, ye know." She had softened at the dog's noise and no longer looked as resolutely angry as she had at first. Everything about her seemed to deflate slightly, giving him the impression of a wilting flower. He didn't know which was worse.

She gave him a long and excruciating look, her green eyes appearing to look at him yet through him all at once. It was the kind of look Rose would give him on their harder nights in Old Town, the kind she saved for when she simply had no idea how they would live another day. It was in remembering Rose that he found his voice. "I'm sorry. I just... couldn't come back."

This had evidentially been the wrong thing to say, and yet another example of why he was terrible with words. Libby seemed to burst- she let out barely muffled sob and seemed to lose some of her sanity with it. She launched herself at him, jamming her fists at every bit of him she could reach.

"Ye-bloody-arse!" She gave him an impressively hard whack around the head, angry tears falling down her face. "Weeks- Weeks I've been waiting! No word! Ye could have been dead!"

He wrapped an arm around her tiny waist, pinning her against him as she struggled to hit him even more. He hadn't expected her reaction, but couldn't say that he didn't deserve it. "Libby, please listen. I didn't want to come back for good reason..."

"Oh don't bloody give me that!" She was alternating between snarling and sobbing as she broke free from his grip, her feet stomping against the ground like a child. "Ye and yer fancy heroics! Ye think yer so special with yer hero weapons and yer gold and yer... and yer... and yer bloody ugly hat!" Before he could stop her she had ripped the hat from his head and smashed it into the dirt, exposing the mangled half of his face.

She fell completely silent, her apple green eyes wide as she stared up at the eye patch and the scar tissue that surrounded it, the face she had once known so well completely unrecognizable. He was already bracing himself for the teasing she would give him, arranging his face to be blank of emotion and trying to ignore the fact that his heart was beating rather quickly in his chest as his ears turned a bright red.

Whatever shock she had been feeling had been dropped from her face, her tiny hands reaching up cup his cheeks. She didn't speak for a long time, her fingers tracing the scar that was bursting from the edges of the eye patch, looking much like an admirer of an ancient oil painting. Her skin was warm against his, her eyes holding a kind of tenderness in their gaze that he had never seen before. His one eye had dropped to her lips as she bit them momentarily, his heart beat seeming to quicken with every passing second. Finally, she spoke. "I like it... I always thought ye looked too pretty to be a hero. Now yer face has got some character."

He was caught off guard with the sense of relief that flooded through him, and even more so off guard with the overwhelming urge to kiss her in delight. She playfully knocked his chin with her fist, turning away from him and taking care to trod on his hat as she walked away from him. "Come along Sparrow. I want to hear all about how ye got that scar... and even more why ye thought it entitled ye to a vacation from my presence."

He followed her without question, scooping his hat from the dirt and placing it back on his head.


	9. Chapter 8

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"How did it happen?" She had been silent as she led him down a path in the woods, making no noise outside of the swish of her braid against her back with every step she took.

He knew he owed her a full explanation, and obliged to tell her the goriest possible version he could muster without breaking down. He was never one for telling stories of his battles, but Libby had always been a good audience—gasping in the right places, groaning when all seemed lost and sometimes even cheering when he finally came out victorious.

She remained silent throughout his entire story, merely nodding when he paused for breath. When he finished, she gave him a sideways glance. "Yer a lot more upset about it than ye let on, aren't ye?"

He gave a tiny jerk of his head and a shrug. "What makes you say that?"

"Yer not wearing yer pistol. My guess is ye can't use it properly anymore."

He didn't bother to reply despite the fact that her observations were very true, instead whistling to his dog. "Stay, boy." They had arrived at the large pond that sat below the Temple of Light, the sun of the afternoon beginning to disappear behind the branches of trees. "What're we doing here?"

She smiled at him for the first time, giving him an affectionate wink. "Have ye seen yerself? Ye could do with a good bath." He couldn't argue with her there. He couldn't remember the last time he had been properly clean—his boots and trousers were caked with mud, his hair matted beneath his hat. The scar on his face was the only part of him he had bothered to keep clean in the past month, and that was simply to avoid infection.

He took a good look around the clearing. The area was relatively quiet and isolated; if anyone were to surprise them he could be in his trousers in a heartbeat. "And you?" He could feel his ears reddening. "Er… Are you going to be taking a bath too?"

She gave him a small smile, sitting delicately on a nearby rock. "Don't be silly. I'm going to be look out." He raised an eye brow at her. "Someone has to dear. Don't want to be fighting bandits with yer willy out, do ye?" She had an excellent point, but he suspected she had ulterior motives. Nevertheless, he placed his axe on the ground at his feet and began to undo the buttons of his coat.

She watched him closely as he removed his clothes, her eyes raking hungrily over the will lined flesh that she had never seen exposed before. Finally he stood in nothing but his undershorts, feeling completely unnerved. "You know, you would be a much more efficient look out if you spent some of your time looking at the forest."

"Sparrow, as yer look out it's important that I look at everything... Especially you." She had an incredibly cocky look on her face, smirking as he lowered himself into the water. "Ye know, yer not going to get everything clean with those knickers on." He was waist deep in the water and sent her an exasperated look before he slipped below the surface and slid his undershorts off. She gave him a rather satisfied smirk as they landed at her feet on shore.

He dipped beneath the surface of the cold water several times, trying to shock his system into giving him some sort of grasp on the situation. He knew what Libby wanted—that much was apparent from her insistence at his nakedness. He knew what his body wanted—even in the cold of the water he had gained an erection, his sex standing tall and hard against his body. His mind however, was overrun with the recklessness of the whole situation. He couldn't allow himself to do this to her, he very presence had brought enough danger to her, he could hardly imagine what making love to her would do.

He abruptly surfaced, determined to set her straight, when he saw her. She was standing on shore; her hair no longer plaited but rather hung in drooping curls around her waist. Perhaps it was the shock of never seeing her like that, or perhaps it was merely his manhood guiding him, but he found himself swimming rapidly towards her.

He stopped when the water reached his waist, not ready to expose himself to her. She was flushed around the cheeks, her eyes roaming his naked figure. "Why?" He didn't know exactly what he was asking. Why did she drive him mad? Why wouldn't she leave him alone? Why did she wait for him day after day? Why did she still fancy him, no matter how many times he shrugged her off?

She smiled, mimicking the shrug he often gave her when he had no real answer to her questions. The gesture sent his blood pumping, making him want to throttle her and kiss her all at once. He let his feet take him to shore, watching her eyes widen as they dropped below his waist.

She moved to him, her curls being taken by the wind. Her breath felt unnaturally warm against his neck, her fingers like tickling ants as they traced the will lines on his chest. "Yer a beautiful man, Sparrow." Her finger boldly traced a will line that dipped below his waist, her lips quivering. "I've always thought so."

He lifted her chin with a finger—she felt so soft to the touch he was afraid he was going to break her. "This is incredibly dangerous." She didn't seem to be listening to him, her emerald eyes focused on his lips. "I have a price on my head, you know. I could die any day. I can get attacked at any moment by assassins, trolls, hobbes..." Despite all his words of caution he found himself tangling his fingers in her hair, his calloused fingertips stroking the curve of her hips. "I have assassins after me." He paused, her breath tickling his cheek. "I'll get more scars. I won't always look like this."

"I don't care." She whispered the words very slowly, her hand cupping his neck as the turned his face towards her. For a moment they locked eyes, her eye lashes fluttering nervously.

All at once she pulled herself into him, her lips on his sending a new kind of fire through his veins. He had kissed plenty of women, but never like this—she seemed to take the breath out of his lungs and send lightening to his knees. All hope of ever resisting her again was gone, as was all hope of ever protecting her.

The sun had long since set, leaving them alone in the dark. Blindly, he tore at the neck of her dress, causing her to moan as the tips of her breasts were exposed to the moonlight. He grabbed at her fleshy mounds, losing all control as she bit and sucked at his neck. They seemed to crash to the earth, their hands grasping and tugging at each other in lust. He was vaguely aware of her breath in his ear, the sounds of her moans the only noise in the forest.

Abruptly she pulled back, her emerald eyes searching his, her bottom lip swollen from their kissing. "Do ye love me?"

The questions seemed so absurd to him, and all at once he realized the answer: She drove him mad. Somewhere between his absolute hatred for her and this moment he had managed to fall for her—perhaps because she had not treated him with disgust for his scars, or perhaps because she had been the only person he had allowed affection for since Rose. He gave her a long hard look, answering her question with a question of his own. "Do you love me?"

"Always." She breathed, the words sounding more like a promise than a declaration.

For a long moment they looked at each other, both breathing rather heavily through their noses. He knew he could not longer put off telling her, and despite the fact that he desperately wanted her he knew she deserved to know. "I'm competing in The Crucible.''

Her look quickly changed from one of lust to concern, and he knew instantly that they would no longer be making love that night.


	10. Chapter 9

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"...And what exactly will happen in the Spire?"

Sitting across from him at the tattered wooden table, Libby was full of questions. The heat of lust seemed to evaporate from her body the moment they had clumsily redressed on shore, only to be replaced with a numb sense of worry.

He gave her one of his usual shrugs.

He had been right to assume that Libby's house was indeed empty. She was the only regular resident, with her father stopping by every few months to drop off a large sum of gold and scold her for not yet obtaining a husband. The house itself was a shack- all the furniture was either broken or moments away from falling apart, with large amounts of dust collecting in various places. The place lacked any sense of warmth, the only sign that a family lived there was a large oil painting above the fireplace mantle.

Libby could not be more than five in the picture, easily recognizable by her emerald eyes and already braided hair. She was the splitting image of the man whose hand she held, obviously her father, with the same blonde hair and eyes. The only difference between the two was the fact that she was neither overweight nor the owner of a rather impressive moustache. The woman pictured had no resemblance to Libby but was obviously her mother; with raven black hair and a severely pointed chin, she was the opposite of Libby in almost every physical way.

"Quite the happy family, weren't we?" Libby had caught him staring.

He chose to remain silent and settled for moving in front of the painting, his fingers reaching out to touch the bumps of the dried oil paint on the canvas. "Were you and your mother close?"

She had moved beside him, her eyes reflecting the firelight as she stared into the dying flames. "Aye. She was my best friend. Only woman in the village who wasn't afraid to speak her mind, back then. Used to give my dad a run for his money, I'll tell ye that." She let out a booming laugh. "I remember coming home from school one day and watching her kick down the outhouse door to yell at my dad while he went to the loo. Never seen him so flustered... And not even a week later, I came home from school and she was gone. Not even a good bye. Dad found out later that she had taken up with a crate carrier in Bowerstone, can ye believe that?"

He couldn't. The possibility that a parent would willingly leave their children seemed foreign to him. "And your dad?"

"Aye, we rub along as well as we can. I prefer it when he's gone." She shrugged at him, smiling. "What about ye?"

He had never told anyone about his family, and was vaguely aware of that fact as he began to speak. "Parents were killed by bandits when I was 4, so I don't really remember. The crown sold our farm and it was just me and Rose for the longest time, living on our own."

"Rose?"

"My older sister. One hell of a girl, she was. Don't know how I would have lived without her. Died when she was 13." He cut himself short, his voice threatening to break. Even after all these years, it still hurt to remember her.

Libby was giving him a hard look, trying to read the emotions he was too practiced to let cross his features. Then all at once she sighed, her eyes closing. "She was the first one to get hurt by all yer hero business, wasn't she?"

"And she won't be the last, if things keep going the way they are Libby." She didn't bother looking at him, her eyes focused on the fire. "I'm not kidding. Things have gone far enough. We almost made a very real mistake tonight."

"I'm sick of this!" She was glaring into the fire, her words coming out as hisses. "I'm sick of ye trying to protect me. I told ye I loved ye! Don't ye get it? It's too late for me to turn back!"

He grabbed her roughly by the shoulders, trying with little success to not yell in her face. "That's the problem! I can't do this. I can't love you... Everyone I love gets hurt. My parents were slaughtered, Rose was murdered... Hell, even my dog gets beaten half to death just for trying to protect me!" He could see his arms shaking, his voice cracking with stress. "Libby, I can't imagine... What would I do if I came to Oakfield and you weren't here? If while I was gone someone came and killed you?"

"I've told ye before, I don't care!"

His voice was growing hoarse from all the yelling. "I care! It nearly killed me when Rose died. I can't do it again... I can't let someone else get hurt. Please Libby, please just tell me to go. Scream in my face to leave you alone. Tell me to go to the Spire and do my hero business and never come to town again. I... Please." He felt as pathetic as his nine year old self, as defenceless now as he had in Lucien's study. Hot, embarrassed tears were threatening to run down the good half of his face. "You don't want a man like me. You want someone young and whole; someone without a hero's burden on their shoulders."

She had bared his whole speech with a bored expression on her face. "I'm going to bed Sparrow." She shrugged out of his grasp, not phased by the bearing of his soul. "Ye can join me or not." She sauntered down the hall, not even bothering to look back.

He was left staring at the oil painting, alone. He knew the course of action he was destined to take, he had known it from the day Lucien fired his first bullet: He would live his life alone, an instrument of service to the country and sister he had sworn to avenge. It was safer for everyone if he lived in solitude, no one would suffer the ailments of his presence; never again would someone he loved take a bullet for his life. He looked at the door, and knew the action he should take was merely steps away. Less than 10 steps, and he could leave Libby forever. He could continue on his path to Lucien, the lonely albeit morally just path, and never give a thought for her or her green eyes again.

Those green, green eyes...

His feet reached a conclusion before his head did. He was in too deep. And try as he may, he knew he could never forget her now. His only chance was to try to do right by her, and protect her from whatever harm he was inevitably bringing her way.

"Oh, there ye are." She seemed unsurprised by his appearance, although he was sure that she was aware of the mental contemplation it had taken for him to walk down the hall. She had braided her hair again, the plait swinging over her shoulder. "Come help me with my dress, then."

He rushed forward, his fingers fumbling with the buttons on the back of her dress.

Hours later he lay beside her in bed, fully clothed, watching her eye lashes flutter in her sleep. He was trying desperately to memorize her face- the exact pink of her lips, the number of freckles she had on each cheek. He knew the first rays of dawn were coming any moment, and with those came his departure for the Crucible. And whether he die there or later in the Spire, he wanted to be able to recall on his death bed the image of his first love's face.

The sun broke the horizon as he placed a tender kiss on the crook of her neck. Placing his axe in his belt, he whistled for his dog. It was time to go.


	11. Chapter 10

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The journey to the Crucible had been a long and tiring one, but it was nothing compared to the agonizing trek back to Libby. It was her face he saw in his worst moments, the memory of her face and the scent of her skin on his one of the few things that had kept him from death in the arena. Love had the nasty habit of keeping the horrors of death at bay—never completely eradicated, of course, but far enough away to give a warrior time to regain strength. The journey back to Oakfield was one that caused his feet to ache and blister, but one that he refused to stop. He had limited time before his departure, and he intended to spend as much of that time with her.

The burden he carried with him now was one of a much different variety. He had spent his life avoiding feelings, remaining purposely cold to avoid whatever consequences were in store for the object of his affections—it felt strange, almost liberating, to embrace a certain sense of reckless abandon and allow himself to love Libby. And the new burden he carried now caused a new weight to reside in his left pocket.

She must have seen him coming a few miles off and was already racing towards him when he rounded the final corner before Oakfield, her braid streaming out behind her like a ship sail that had been caught by the wind. She skidded to a stop just short of him, her breast heaving as she gasped for air, a lopsided grin plastered on her face.

"Hello, Sparrow."

"I tend to go by a different title now. Most people tend to call me—"

"Lionheart. I know... Old habits die hard." She was still breathless, staring up at him with the same wonder one exhibits the first time they see stars shine. With her hair falling out of her braid and the gentle blush on her gleaming cheeks, he had never thought she looked so beautiful. He leaned forward, placing a chaste kiss against her lips.

She pulled back all too quickly, her cheeks as red as his as she whacked him quickly around the head. "Took ye long enough to come back!"

He nearly laughed, not even the dull pounding around his temple ruining his delight at finally seeing her. "Come on Libby. I want to show you something."

It felt strange, the feeling of her bare hand intertwined with his as he led her though the streets of Oakfield. He had never been one for skin to skin contact—but as he had always said, emotional and physical distance were a part of being a hero. His skin against Libby's was a completely different experience than he had felt with any other person, woman or otherwise. Every part of her was made of the softest satin, her hair woven with silk. Everything about her smelt of fresh honey, her flesh against his sending fire through his veins.

They had come to a stop in front of the Luminous Cottage. The whole property smelt of the ocean, the windmill spinning merrily on its hill. The scene could have been painted and placed upon a fireplace mantle, spare the few boards of wood that were missing from the outside of the house. Beside him Libby was admiring the landscape, her fingers picking absentmindedly at the end of her braid.

"What do you think?"

She shrugged. "Aye, it's nice. Didn't Albert the Luminous live here a number of years ago?" She let go of his hand, examining the row of flowers beside the front door. "Lovely view of the ocean. And the windmill would be practical."

He watched her look carefully at the house. "Would you like to live here though?"

She shrugged, peeking into a window. "Of course. But I could never afford it."

He could feel himself beginning to go red around the ears and was thankful she was busy staring at the house. "I bought it, you know."

She looked round at him with such a speed that he was sure she hurt her neck, her mouth frowning in confusion. "Why would ye buy it? Aren't ye off to the Spire in a week? …Seems rather stupid."

He couldn't believe how thick-headed she was being. Feeling the redness spread to his cheeks, he tossed the small golden ring at her feet. She frowned at for half a second before she reached into the dirt and plucked it between her fingers, her eyes wide and cheeks blazing. For once in her life, she was silent.

"I know I leave soon. There won't even be time for a proper wedding." The words were tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them; something in her silence spurred him to speak. "But I can't leave unless I know you're mine. I know… Being married to me won't be easy. It'll be terrifying most of the time… We won't have a lot of money and we won't always be happy…. But I promise to do right by you. I will protect you until my dying breath… I will make you proud to call me your husband. And I promise that be it 10 days or 10 years I will find my way back to you." She started crying halfway through his speech, her tears leaving dainty trails down her cheeks. After what seemed like centuries, she slipped the ring on her finger.

They didn't need words any longer. In a way, he knew it would always come down to this—he had just assumed he would give into marriage in exchange for her to stop being so bloody annoying. Now she rushed toward him and flung herself against him, her lips pressing so hard against his he was nearly winded. She seemed to send fire through his veins, making his heart pump so quickly against his veins that he was sure he would faint.

She pulled back all too quickly, her emerald eyes locking on his so fiercely he couldn't bring himself to look away. "Alright." She whispered, her breath tickling the hairs on his chin. "I'll marry ye. But ye have to promise me something."

"Anything."

She paused. "Make me the mother of yer child, Sparrow." He was aware of the sentimental use of his old name, but regardless the silence that followed was an uneasy one. He was sure she could sense his immediate emotional distance, the tenseness in his shoulders. She stared up at him, her eyes pleading. "Yer going to be gone for who knows how long… Ye may never come back. If I can`t have ye… Let me have a piece of ye. Something to remember ye by."

He sighed, but didn't bother arguing; he knew it was a fight he would not win. He simply lifted her up off her feet and crossed the threshold of their new home, his only path leading towards the bedroom.


	12. Chapter 11

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He had set Libby down on the bed as gently as he could given his shaking arms. Retreating to a cabinet in the corner of the room that he knew housed a sweet wine, he tried to hide his shaking hands as he poured them both a glass of wine.

"I'm not going to bite, ye know." She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her emerald eyes staring at him and the spots of alcohol he had left on the counter of the mahogany cabinet . "Yer not afraid of me, are ye?"

"No."

"Then come sit beside me, ye great lump." Obediently he crossed the room and handed her a glass, taking his place beside her on the bed. They sipped in silence for a moment, the alcohol doing little to calm their nerves.

"Tell me about your family." He didn't know why he was asking the question, nor why he was attempting to bide his time.

"Aye, well. Where to start?" Libby was a woman accustomed to a much stronger drink, and in no way hesitated to down the wine. She emptied the glass in one and was already refilling when she began.

"My mother's side of the family lived in Oakvale, and lived to see it burn to the ground twice before they and a few other families had the good sense to move away from the damned place. They crossed through Darkwood- ye wouldn't believe the stories my granddad used to tell me about the place... Then they settled here and shared land with the Barrow Fields traders. That's where the name Oakfield comes from, geddit?" She took a sip of wine, her eyes beginning to light up at the memory. "And they couldn't have picked a better place. The land is rich for farming, you can fish in the ocean and a good patch of forest for hunting. I can't imagine living near Bloodstone now, can ye? Anyway, my grandparents had two daughters, Janet and Diane- Diane was my mother. Janet drowned herself on her wedding day- the rumour was she was with child and didn't fancy settling down with the fellow, don't ye know."

Her cheeks were beginning to redden, the baby hairs beside her face becoming unwoven from her braid as she spoke. "My father was a MacKay and was raised in Scotland, born in the village of Broche. His whole family were travelling traders, his father, his brothers Dougal and James, with his sister Shannon and mother at home. His father was trading more than goods with several military officers- scandalous affair, the whole family wasn't even allowed in church. So at 19 my dad packed up his younger siblings and his mother and set sail, trying to find land to trade on without any knowledge of the family scandal. At first they touched down in Bloodstone- where his brother Dougal struck up a business deal and now owns the current pub- but the rest of the family had set sail to find another port. And they landed here- my mother got one good look at my father the day they touched land and knew she wanted to be his wife."

"Like mother like daughter, I see." She smiled at his comment, her eyes focused on something he couldn't see.

"Aye. Scandal of a wedding. My mother was pregnant with my sister Lisa at the time, could barely fit into a wedding dress. But she picked a sorry state of a man. Very handsome, but not at all kind. The two of them butt heads, let me tell ye. Used to wake up to the two of them screaming their heads off in the wheat fields, the rare occasion he was home."

She had finished another glass of wine- between the two of them the bottle was nearly gone. Unlike him, she could handle her liquor- while he felt sleepy and oddly warm she was walking around the room with apparent ease, searching the cabinet for more alcohol. "You've never introduced me to your sister." He couldn't remember seeing any woman in the village who even resembled Libby. "Does she live in another town?"

Libby made a noise in the back of her throat. "She isn't alive anymore. Got attacked by hobbes when she was only a baby." She filled her glass and his, glancing at him. "What about yer family?"

He had never given her the details of his family life before, but it seemed only fitting that he share it with her in their marital home. Taking the glass she handed to him, he cleared his throat. "I was very young when my parents died. We used to live on a farm along the border of Brightwood- or at least that's what Rose used to tell me. When the area first became over run by bandits, it was our land that got taken first. My parents were slaughtered, but Rose and I managed to hide in the cellar of our old barn until the bandits had taken what they wanted and left."

Libby took her hands in his, her skin feeling oddly delicate against the many calluses and scars on his hands. She prodded his shoulder with her forehead, her lips frowning up at him. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I was too young to know what was happening. Anyway, we took whatever gold the bandits left behind and made our way to Bowerstone. We lived on the streets until I was about 8. Then Rose was shot... And I was on my own again." He didn't want to share the details of Rose's murder, nor did Libby press him. He took a rather large gulp of wine and continued. "Then I went to the gypsy camp and lived there for about 10 years, until I was ready."

"Ready for what?"

"...To become a hero, I guess." He always felt odd calling himself that. "Maybe until I was ready to avenge Rose. I don't know..." She didn't reply but merely stared up at him, giving him a quizzical look. It was strange, how much her eyes enticed him, how much they lingered in his thoughts. To distract himself, he glanced out the window, feeling almost surprised by the lack of light outside. "It's getting awfully late. Maybe we should go to bed."

He could tell without looking that Libby's mischievous smile had returned to her lips. "To bed? Or to sleep?" He had forgotten the reasoning behind their being there and felt himself immediately go red. Libby let out a booming laugh as she placed the almost empty wine bottle back in the cabinet. "Either way, I'm not about to sleep in my dress. Come and help me with the buttons, Sparrow."

The fact that they both slept naked would certainly bring about some sort of action. He could feel his hands trembling as he placed her braid gently about the crook of her shoulder, his fingers setting to work on the buttons of her gown. The tiny hooks proved frustrating and tedious, but at last the garment dripped on her body, leaving her standing only in a chemise. The fabric itself was thin, the pointed ends of her nipples puckering as she turned to face him. He had never seen another woman look more beautiful, Libby's creamy skin almost glowing in the moonlight.

"Yer turn." She smiled at him through her lashes as she slid his coat off his shoulders, letting it crumple on the floor. She unfastened his shirt, sliding her hands beneath the fabric and across his chest. Her fingers knotted briefly in his chest hair, her breath coming quicker and filling the air with the smell of the Sandgoose's finest brew. She worried her lip and turned her attention to his belt buckle; she had yanked it open when the urge to kiss her overwhelmed him. Grasping her shoulders he bent his lips to meet hers with such a force he could be sure of bruising her.

He lost control as fire roared through his veins, and pulled back the moment he heard her yelp- the sleeves of her chemise were slightly smoking, the thin fabric scorched from the brief amount of fire that had been forced from his palms. The lines on his chest were glowing brilliantly, lighting up the shock on Libby's face. Horrified, he stumbled and practically fell onto the bed.

"What the bloody hell was that?" The fabric had saved Libby from the majority of the fire, her shoulders barely red from the heat. She was staring at him with wonder, her chemise smoking.

"I'm sorry... I just... You don't know what you do to me." He buried his face in his palms, the horror at what had almost happened setting in his mind. "I've kissed women before... But when it's you I can't... I lose control. Are you hurt?"

Far from looking upset Libby sent him a blazing look, rushing to seat herself firmly on his lap. Wrapping her legs about his waist, she pulled herself firmly against his erection. She pulled his face from his hands, her eyes wild with lust. "Kiss me." Yanking his shirt roughly from his chest, her lips found his again.

He had lost his head, the impact of Libby's kiss making him throw caution out the window. Slipping the singed straps of her chemise off her shoulders, he drew back slightly, listening to her ragged breath as he grabbed at her newly exposed breasts, cupping them and pinching her nipples teasingly. His lips found the crook of her neck and he began to suck the sensitive flesh, his free hand sliding down to the slippery cleft between her legs. His palm was pleasantly warm against her sensitive flesh, causing her to release a moan that made him shiver with pleasure at the noise.

"Christ." She hissed into the air, his fingers prowling her sex, teasing her clitoris and sliding in and out of her. Her grip on his back turned to one of a clawing nature, breaking the skin as he took a single nipple in his mouth.

She gasped and slid off him, yanking at his trousers until they lay around his ankles. She yanked her burnt chemise off herself, his erection warmed by her staggering breath. All at once she plunged his sex into her mouth, making him moan in delight.

"Libby," He sounded almost hoarse, the will lines of his body flickering in his effort not to cast a spell. "Libby, Christ almighty." He tugged lightly on the end of her braid, his erection popping out of her mouth as she glanced up at him. "Libby... Tell me if I'm too rough, or tell me to stop if you need me to. Tell me now, while I can still think..."

In answer she yanked on the tie of her braid, her hair falling in curls that framed her breasts. Using the tip on her fingers, she gently traced a will line up his thigh and onto his chest, her breasts rubbing against the flesh of his stomach.

"Yer not afraid, are ye Sparrow?" She whispered. The comment both enraged and aroused him, causing him to take her by the shoulders and send her crashing into the bed. She laughed as he knelt between her legs, his lips kissing their way to her sex. She gasped almost comically as neared her clitoris, moaning as he sucked gently on the tiny organ. His fingers began to pump in and out of her, the gap between his palm and her opening becoming wetter by the second.

Her legs wrapped around his waist, forcing him away from her. Using a hand to guide him, she placed a chaste kiss against his lips. Excruciatingly slow, he lowered his hips and entered her.

"Bloody Christ." She whispered.

He couldn't find the words to ask if she was alright, his own breath coming shallow. He thrust himself in and out of her, listening to her moans and occasional squeaks. Sweat had begun to drip down his forehead, pooling in between her breasts as he pawed at them. She arched her back all at once and let out a squeal, a noise so foreign to him that he nearly stopped all together. "Alright?" He managed to get out between his grinding teeth, his head beginning to spin.

She sent him a lop-sided grin, the blush on her cheeks giving her a satisfied look. "Always." She managed to get out before she began to moan again, her eyes snapping shut in pleasure.

His breathing began to come on faster, the pressure in his erection building as he thrust deep within her, his touching of her womb making her groan. The lines on his body began to flicker as he fought for control, his palms steaming as he pressed them into the mattress. He could barely open his eyes to lock with hers as he moaned, a rush shooting out between his thighs and into her, loosening his joints and making him feel as if he had recently drowned. He let out a long breath, his fingers reaching up to brush the hair out of her emerald eyes.

A while later he rested his head against her breast, her nipple tickling his cheek as their breathing slowed. The sweat of their joining made the entire bed soggy, their hair matted together as the blood rushed back into the rest of their bodies. The air around them was muggy with the hot air he had released, the bed feeling uncomfortably warm from their joining.

Libby herself was looking flushed with happiness, her hand raking through his hair. Glancing down at him, she chuckled. "I know ye don't want a child, but ye have to admit that the process is fun."

He didn't reply, his breath tickling her breast as he slipped into a dreamless sleep.


	13. Chapter 12

He awoke abruptly at dawn only to find her sleepless and sobbing beside him. The fact that she was crying seemed to rattle him to the core: one of his favourite things about Libby was that she was rarely weepy- although, certainly capable of ferocious anger- and it was the sight of her tears that made the monumental task before him seem ever so impossible.

"I'm sorry," she said thickly, wiping her eyes noisily on the bed sheet. "Did I wake ye?"

"No." He didn't bother asking why she was crying, nor did he think he could stand anymore of it. He sat up, searching for his undershorts.

Her hand on his shoulder and the feeling of her bare breasts against his back stopped him, and for a moment he allowed himself to collapse against her, the sound of her sobbing into his flesh raking through him like a thousand knives. He didn't know how long they stayed like that, man and wife united in grief, until he had the courage to try to get out of bed again.

"Please." Her nails clutched deeper into the flesh of his shoulder, the catch in her voice all but bruising him. "Come back to bed." Against his will, he felt the cool metal of her wedding ring press painfully against him.

He turned to her, his fingers knotting easily into her hair as if they had a thousand times, and allowed himself to admire her. He had never seen her look so startlingly beautiful, tears rushing from her eyes and her hair matted with sleep. "You're making this so much harder than it has to be."

Through her tears, she sent him the crooked smile he knew would haunt his dreams in the coming months. "I tend to do that with a lot of things." Sniffling noisily, she leant in and pressed her lips to his.

He couldn't stop himself, nor did he ever think he would be able to, from taking her. Easing her back gently to the bed, he took the time to explore her the way he had not been able to during the heat of the previous evening- carefully, as if he were a blind man (which, if we were being technical, he almost was) he allowed his lips to trace every curve of her body. From the tender line of her jaw to the sensitive points behind her knees he bathed her flesh in kisses, allowing his tongue to take up the more difficult and exciting point between her legs.

Gently working between her folds, he attempted to memorize her breathing, the way her breath would catch when he reached a particularly sensitive point, her attempts to moan his name as his index finger pleasured her. "Sparrow..." The tears had dried on her cheeks, the mingled expression of grief and pleasure calling him to her.

He took his time entering her, determined to memorize the exact way she held him, the slow hiss of breathe she released onto his neck as he pulled her leg above his shoulder. He came to her at a slow pace, each pound into her womb making her cry out and him almost collapse with pleasure. Sweat poured from his face in an effort to sustain his rhythm, dripping steadily to pool between her naked breasts. She moaned against his neck, her finger nails leaving deep, swollen scratches along his spine as she rocked against his hips, urging him onward. "Faster." She moaned, her hands reaching around and pulling his hips toward her, pulling him deeper inside her.

He was never one to disappoint a woman, and within a few minutes his speed sent both their heads rolling back in pleasure, their limp bodies crashing against one another on the mattress. It was several moments before they both found air.

She stared at him across the sheets, not bothering to hide herself under them, her cheeks flushed. His palm reached out of its own accord and began to trace the curve of her hips. She cleared her throat, slightly hoarse from all the noise they had been making. "I know ye don't even want it but... Which would ye prefer?"

"Which of what?"

She cuffed the back of his neck, too tired to properly hit him. "Boy or girl, of course."

He hadn't really considered it. "Which would you prefer? You're the one who's going to be pushing it out, after all."

She answered far too quickly for his liking, as if she had been considering the thought for far longer than he had. "I'd like one of each, I think. Maybe two boys and a girl, depending. But I never grew up with a brother and I always thought it would be dandy to have one. Boys don't really run in my family, though."

In the back of his mind, he thought of Rose. "Yeah. Brother's need sisters too." And, before he could stop himself, "Got any names in mind?"

"I'd like Logan for a boy. Named for my father, the bloody bastard."

Suddenly, he could only see Rose's face before his eyes and without knowing it he was miles away from Libby. In the back of his mind he could hear the voice he had almost forgotten whispering, 'come on, little sparrow,' in the dark alley ways of Old Town, and before he could stop himself his hand was on Libby's stomach, tracing the outline of her navel and the possibility of life beneath her flesh... The thought of children had hardly entered his mind before last night, and yet suddenly he could think of no greater tribute to Rose, not other way to repay her for the cost of her life... A life for a life...

"Sparrow?"

He had hardly been aware of the tears threatening to spill onto his cheeks, and hastily brushed them away. "Libby," He grasped the back of her neck; he couldn't express to her how important this was, he simply didn't have the words. "Libby, if it's a girl... It needs to be Rose. It has to. The middle name can be whatever you damn want, but she has to be Rosalyn."

He had been expecting to need a reason, had expected Libby to question why it was so important for their daughter to be named for his sister, but she didn't. She simply placed his hand on her stomach once more and sighed into his shoulder, "For ye Sparrow, anything."

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